


And History Is Uninhabited

by merewiowing



Category: Final Fantasy IV, Final Fantasy IV: The After Years
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merewiowing/pseuds/merewiowing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Highwinds have a house in the country. Kain has never been to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And History Is Uninhabited

I

Very few people had come to Richard Highwind’s funeral. Even fewer have stayed for the wake. His house was dark and quiet, like on any other night. Come midday, it was empty.

It stood empty for six days before one of the deceased’s many distant relatives came to appraise the situation. With him came his wife. They, too, didn’t stay for long. They didn’t feel at ease in the building. Years later, if asked about that, they would say they felt unwelcome, as if the walls themselves were judging them.

One evening, a few days after they returned to their own home, they finally discussed what is to be done.

“The house,” began the cousin, whose name was Alfred, “should be closed. Nobody will come to live there anytime soon.”

His wife, Irene, didn’t even look up from her needlework. Feeling as though she dismissed his words, Alfred continued, “Even if anyone wanted to live there, it’s too big. Too expensive to maintain. New servants would have to be hired, for one.”

Irene paused. The colour she chose for the roses didn’t match the other flowers. “What about his son?” she asked, almost absentmindedly. She had never met Richard’s son, nor the boy’s late mother.

Alfred leaned back in his chair. “The boy is still in the castle. He has been told of his father’s death, but no one thought to bring him here.” He paused to think for a moment, and stroked his beard. “There is no-one who wanted to take him in, either.”

“That poor child. If only his mother was still with us.”

“He will be fine. Most likely some old soldier will take him in.”

This seemed to satisfy Irene’s interest in the boy. She went back to her work and began to carefully remove the thread. Alfred, however, evidently felt that he must convince his wife. “Really, this might even be better for him than living with family.” His voice dropped, and when he continued, it seemed like he was just thinking out loud. “If he is anything like his father was, soldiers will be far more pleasant company than relatives.”

His wife murmured something in agreement.

“I will arrange for the house to be closed as soon as I can,” Alfred concluded, deciding the conversation was over.

Indeed, the house was boarded up and shut before two weeks have passed. It was the proper course of action: no other relatives of the Highwinds, close or distant, expressed interest in it. Nobody wanted to live with old ghosts and even older glory.

Years passed before anyone came back to the house. Richard Highwind’s son never did.

 

II

The next time someone came to the Highwinds’ house, Baron had a new king. In fact, the person who came was the young king himself.

“The doors and windows are boarded up,” he said to his wife the queen, who came along with him.

“I told you he wouldn’t have come here,” she replied. This didn’t deter the king. He walked up to the door and noticed the boards were old and worse for wear. Then he took two steps back and tackled the boards, strong enough that they broke. This was not an act fit for a king, but he was young and the crown had not wrung the soldier out of him yet.

“Maybe he came inside through other means. Please, Rosa,” he said, looking at his wife, before entering the building. The queen sighed. She had much less hope. She felt that after all these years and all that happened, she still knew the man they were searching for better than her husband did. Still, she followed him inside the house.

The house was dark, quiet, and empty. Dust motes swirled in thin rays of sunlight. When the king took a step, the sound echoed through corridors, and when it quieted down, a skittering sound followed it. Rodents and spiders have come to fill the place people have left.

“Cecil,” said the queen quietly, “nobody has been here for years.” The king ignored her and walked further into the building.

When he returned, his wife was where he had left her. The queen didn’t want to waste time on futile efforts.

“There is something I would like you to see,” he said, to avoid admitting she had been right. “Come with me,” he added, and pointed to the corridor he had just exited.

He led her to a room close by. The curtains were open and the boards removed from the window. The light shone at the adjacent wall and the painting hanging on it. The king motioned his wife to look at it.

“She looks a lot like him, doesn’t she?” he said. The queen approached the portrait and examined it closely. What her husband had said was true. She had never seen this woman before, and yet the shape of her face, the colour of her hair, even the way she held her head, they were all very familiar. She looked closer, to check for names.

“It isn’t signed,” she said after a moment. “But there are dates. Cecil, this must be his mother. Or someone closely related to her.”

The king sighed. The queen reached to touch his hand.

“He’s gone, Cecil. We won’t find him.”

“Maybe we could at least find a clue here. Something that would help us look for him.”

“Cecil, I’ve told you already. He's never been to this house.”

The king fell silent again. His shoulders were slumped. This, too, was unfit for a king.

They left the house soon after, and didn’t come back again. Soon enough, they both accepted the absence of their friend, and quietly, privately mourned him. Sometimes they talked about him to their son, without revealing how close they truly were, or how deeply this friendship had hurt them.

 

III

The house stood abandoned for many more years, until one night, a young prince and his guide found it by chance.

“Can we spend the night here?” the prince asked. “I think it will rain tonight, too.” His guide didn’t answer at first. He did, however, enter the house through the broken down door. He walked around in the entryway. The prince reasoned the man was checking to see if nobody or nothing else took shelter in the house. Finally, he heard his guide shout, “Come inside.”

The prince entered, happy to sleep under a roof for a change. He was still very young, with little experience, and the prolonged return home was exhausting him. He often wondered if this meant he would never make a good soldier.

Soon enough, thunder roared in the distance and rain started falling. The house proved a dry enough shelter. Despite its condition and the disrepair it was in, the roof didn’t seem to have holes.

The prince’s guide had disappeared somewhere, but the prince was used to him doing that. By now, he knew that the man would always come back by morning. He also knew that the man would never say where he has been. The boy was so used to it that it didn’t even make him feel unsafe anymore. That night, too, he simply found a spot on the floor that looked a little less grimy and laid down on it. He felt asleep soon afterwards.

When he woke up, it was still dark, and the storm had not stopped yet. His guide was sitting nearby. He was sharpening his knife. The sound of the blade grinding against the whetstone must have been what woke the prince up.

“When I was a child, my mother and father would tell me stories on nights like this. Made-up ones, or stories about their friends. It would help me fall asleep,” the prince said. He didn’t expect a reply and he didn’t receive one. He decided to try another approach, and asked, “Did you recognise the family crest over the door?”

This time the man didn’t ignore him completely. Without looking up from his work, he said, “No.”

“The family this house had belonged must have been a great one.”

The prince’s guide put the whetstone down, and said, “It doesn’t matter now. If the house stands empty, they must all be dead now. Dead, or disgraced.”

The prince was surprised by that. That was more words than the man had said to him during the last few days.

“How can you know that?” he asked. Not waiting for a reply, he continued, “Maybe they will come back one day. The house is still standing, it could serve them well after some repairs.”

The sound that came from the man must have been laughter, but the boy could not be sure. He had never heard him laugh before. It sounded hollow.

“You’re naïve if you think that things can be repaired after so much time has passed. Look around yourself. We’re sitting in a ruin.”

“Even ruins can serve a purpose.”

“A ruin can never be made into what it once was. At best, it can be a pleasant reminder. Usually, it’s a hurtful one.” The man picked up his whetstone again and resumed his work. “Go back to sleep, Ceodore.”

The prince and his guide left the house next morning. Clouds still hung heavily and the light was diluted and grey. The prince turned back to look at the house one last time. He thought to himself that one day he would return and learn more about it. But more important matters easily pushed the ruin out of his mind and he never stepped a foot inside it again. Many years later, as a king, he found out who the house had belonged to. He wondered, then, if the man who was his guide ever returned there.

**Author's Note:**

> In FFIV, Kain says his father died when he was "very young". In TAY, he says he was "around Ceodore's age". I always preferred the original version over the retcon.


End file.
